


Kiss Goodnight

by Val_Creative



Series: Kinktober/Whumptober/Goretober 2020 [24]
Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Adults, Blindfolds, Blood and Gore, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Past, Developing Relationship, During Canon, Explicit Consent, F/M, Goretober, Horror, Introspection, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, Masturbation, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Sexual Content, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:40:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: The girl is yours now.
Relationships: Greta Evans/Brahms Heelshire
Series: Kinktober/Whumptober/Goretober 2020 [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949473
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41
Collections: Kinktober 2020, Whumptober 2020





	Kiss Goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> I FORGOT IF I HAD OTHER HORROR MOVIE BASED FICS THIS MONTH BEFORE THIS ONE. BUT HERE WE GO. HAVE ONE.

*

Odd.

That's what Malcolm said Mr. Heelshire called his son.

Greta never had doubts. Odd is the cracks and creaks and clatters running through this mansion. She hears them all of the time. Odd is the ringing of the downstairs parlor telephone and hearing a set of low, eerie gasps. Odd is discovering that Greta's high-heeled shoes go missing, and then her oversized winter jacket and her gold locket necklace. _Odd_ —she can handle.

What remains of Cole's body stinks of raw, gelatinous gore and dried blood. His eyes reduced to sockets. Brahms went for him as a furious Cole pulverized the doll, threw a hysterically sobbing Greta onto the floor and attempted to strangle her.

It's hard to get out the intensely visceral image of red fluid spewing. He howled to Greta for _help_ , like it mattered, dying as Brahms whirred his battery-operated power saw on louder, grinding and hacking into Cole's spinal cord. Droplets of blood flecked onto Brahms's porcelain doll-mask. Greta couldn't help but stare in overwhelmed befuddlement.

Malcolm fled out of the Heelshire mansion. He _left_ her.

When morning's light touches her face, Greta discovers the corpse rolled neatly into one of the Persian rugs. "Brahms," she murmurs, feeling a sudden and unexplained twinge of relief. There's been no sign of Brahms since the fight. Not for hours.

He must have disappeared into the wall's hole, she supposes. Greta hasn't pluck up the courage to sneak in and find him.

But…

She's understanding everything better now. As terrifying and thrilling as it is.

"I don't need you to talk to me as a little boy anymore," Greta announces, looking around her room expectantly. "You're a man, Brahms. You have been for a while now. There's nothing wrong with acknowledging that and moving on. Let me help you."

_ Yes. _

His voice echos from within Greta's walls, raspy-dark. No longer pitched high.

Greta nods.

"Thank you," she says. "For helping me too when I needed it… I needed you… and you should know this."

No answer.

There's faint shifts and rattles coming from the hallway. Pipes banging.  Greta doesn't bother with the questions racing through her mind right then, deciding to comb out her hair and wander the grounds to admire the landscape. Eat lunch and drink wine and read one of the library books out loud, enunciating and cheerful, so Brahms can hear her wherever he's lurking.

Storm clouds brew. Rain dribbles down the glass.

By the light of her candle, Greta wiggles on a pink satin night-slip. Her bare thighs exposed. She tucks away her underwear into her suitcase, bending over, feeling the chill where her ass flashes to Brahms's empty room. Maybe this is tempting the devil.

_ Maybe… _

He has to have seen her going into the shower before. Naked from head to foot. 

The thought horrified Greta initially, and she does want Brahms to apologize for spying. They can work their way up to it—she has plans for tonight. He _did_ stop the man she secretly wanted dead for hurting her.  


Greta left the parlor-room's gramophone playing, heading upstairs and yawning.

Music is Brahms's world—or so Mrs. Heelshire told her.

(She somehow doubts Mr. and Mrs. Heelshire would be _returning_.)

Her thin-cloth scarf fists in Greta's hand. Cole used to tease about using blindfolds while they had sex, and Greta always refused. It earned her a slap on the face occasionally. She takes a deep breath, raising her scarf and tying it around her eyes.

Greta's heart pounds erratically.

She's _okay_.

It's gonna be _okay_ now.

Brahms is shy. Timid. He's particular and Greta doesn't think it hurts to be cautious.

"You chose me, Brahms." She reclines onto the old, dusty bed. Greta can smell Mrs. Heelshire's perfume and ashy cinders and grapeseed on Brahms's sheets. "That means I get to choose you. You can watch me as long as you behave, okay?"

No answer.

The room's chill drifts all over her as she separates her legs, nudging a hand between her warm, bottle-tanned thighs. Her cunt responses with a quiver Greta feels her nipples hardening against her night-slip. She absently rubs one through the soft pink fabric, humming pleasantly and listening to the walls groaning and screeching and rumbling deafeningly like hidden gears.

_ "You've been good, Brahms…" _

She can witness nothing but the darkness, teasing her vulva-folds and pinching. Stifling the urge to go for her clitoris.

Even without the blindfold, Greta knows how the skies have already darkened outside. The rainstorm pours. She moans out quietly, rubbing herself, clenching up and waiting for the orgasm. Greta wonders if Brahms already is there. Waiting, too.

In the middle of it, Greta feels veined hands crawling up her legs, hugging them together.

Brahms nuzzles his chin on her, grunting and worshiping her, dragging the thick, prickly hairs of his beard against Greta's skin. He's without his mask. She's sure. She ridges of his facial burn scars. His lips open to kiss her calf. Greta smiles humorlessly.

_ "So good…" _

*

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober 2020 prompt(s): **Sweat, Masturbation**  
>  Whumptober 2020 prompt(s): **Blindfolded**  
>  Goretober 2020 prompt(s): **Power tools**


End file.
